


Give Me Arms to Pray With Instead of Ones that Hold Too Tightly

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ares & Aphrodite - Freeform, F/M, Hades & Persephone, Mythology - Freeform, One Shot, inspired by Florence + the Machine's new album because it's AMAZING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15388200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: “Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.”- Sylvia PlathIn which Sansa is under a curse, Jon suffers existential angst (what else is new), and they bang at the end.





	Give Me Arms to Pray With Instead of Ones that Hold Too Tightly

“Is this the land of the dead?” he asks her when he wakes. 

Sansa can’t remember how long it’s been since she first found him. It could have been hours ago, or it could have easily been aeons. Time tends to lose all meaning to those cursed with immortality.

She had been walking from one far corner of the garden to the other, the way any trapped creature will prowl about its cage. When she came to the river which marked one of her barriers, she saw a dark shape in the water. A shadow, caught between two jagged rocks, being lashed by the current. The river ran pink with blood, the most beautiful shade. 

When Sansa drew closer, she saw the shadow was a man, and the man was clearly dying. 

She waded in, not caring that the sodden weight of her skirts threatened to pull her under. The man was almost too far away- Sansa could feel the curse clawing at her as she approached him. The enchantment was stronger than the current, determined to hold her back and keep her from reaching the opposite shore. She had to strain herself to reach out and  _ just  _ take hold of the man’s pale hand. It took all of her strength to drag him back to dry land. 

She tore open his black shirt, and almost gasped when she saw his wounds. It had been a millennia since anything had fazed her, but this was ghastly. What kind of atrocities had this man committed, to provoke another to thrust a knife right into his marrow, skimming his heart? 

But it wasn’t her place to judge, and she could only learn his story if he survived. 

All the necessary healing herbs grew in the garden, and after she was finished picking them, her hands had stopped shaking long enough for her to sew up his wounds with neat and careful stitches. Then all she could do was administer milk of the poppy so that he could rest a little while longer. Sansa had to resist the urge to pray- even now, after all this time, it was a hard habit to break. She often forgot that she was a goddess now. That there was no one left to pray to.

When Sansa later went to kneel at the riverbank and wash the man’s blood from her hands, Petyr was waiting for her on the opposite shore. Like the wounded mortal, he was dressed in black. But while Sansa didn’t doubt that there were many gods and men who would happily shove a blade in Petyr’s heart- she herself longed to- she knew the lord of trickery and lies would never let anyone get close enough to try. 

“Why are you here?” she asked him, not bothering to conceal the fury he always brought out in her. No matter how much time passed, her heart was always a blackened coal of hate burning in her chest. So many old habits were hard to break. 

“I senses that you tried to pass the barrier. You haven’t been foolish enough to try that in years,” he said. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d changed your mind.

“Never.”

“You look as lovely as the day you first summoned me, Sansa. You’re too beautiful to be hidden away. You deserved to be worshipped by the world. Not to waste away in this prison.”

“A prison  _ you  _ put me in,” she reminded him.

“You can leave whenever you’d like, sweetling. Just say the word.”

“And marry you?” she scoffed. “That’s just exchanging one prison for another. I’ll stay in the garden.”

The only sign of Petyr’s anger was his quick swallow before he smiled and said, “You would forsake endless power, endless glory, endless riches? Together we could make the world  _ ours.  _ Sansa, you would be my queen as I sat on the throne of the gods.”

She hated the way he said her name. He made it an insinuation. “If you’re so powerful, why don’t you cross the river, then?” she mocked. She knew that would be enough to curdle his smile, to make him turn his back on her. He would be back, eventually. He always was, after he licked his wounds and assuaged his pride enough to convince himself yet again that he could buy, if not her love, then her obedience. Sansa’s only comfort was that he couldn’t cross the river. Petyr had been so intent on keeping her  _ in  _ the garden that he’d cast a spell too strict. She couldn’t leave, but he couldn’t enter. No one could.

At least, no one had been able to, until this mysterious mortal had washed up on her shore. Sansa gazed on his slumbering form. Even while sleeping, the man seemed troubled. He had stern northern features, a face carved out of ice and a body made of weathered granite. Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a soul from her homeland. She reached out, brushed a dark curl away from his brow, and even though she knew no one was listening to her silent plea, she hoped the mortal was dreaming of something happy.

***

While he’d slept like a dead man- for hours or aeons- Sansa had sewn him new garments, and left them folded beside him for him to find when he woke. Now, when he stumbles through the garden asking if this is the land of the dead, he’s wearing what she made him. 

They fit well, she notes with a tinge of pride. 

Sansa isn’t sorry she missed his initial waking. She can imagine it well enough- the gasping, the clutching at his half-healed scars, the horror of finding himself alive after he’d already made peace with dying. Sansa is familiar with the sensation.

He finds her the same way she found him- submerged in the river, though she’s hardly in need of rescue. She’s only swimming. Sometimes she needs a reprieve from breathing. 

He’s courteous, this mortal. He averts his gaze from the pale shape of her body in the water. Almost every other man Sansa has known would have looked their fill. But he stares resolutely at nothing, and asks, “Is this the land of the dead?”

“Does this look like the land of the dead?” Sansa laughs. She gestures to their lush surroundings. The man takes in the vitality of the trees and flowers and vines, all aching with life. Everything is overgrown emerald, the precise shade of Petyr’s eyes. Sansa has grown to detest the color green. 

The man blushes fiercely, and Sansa takes pity on him. She asks, gently, “What’s your name?

“Jon. Jon Snow.”

“You’re mighty lost, aren’t you, Jon Snow?”

“I need to get to the land of the dead,” he says.

She teases, “And to think I worked so hard to save you.” 

“That was you? And did you-?” Jon pulls at the collar of his new tunic, and Sansa nods. “Thank you,” he says. 

“It didn’t cost me anything,” she shrugs. “Well, Jon Snow, you must be some great hero to get this far on your quest. Not many mortals make it into the eighth kingdom. Let me guess- you’re here to get your lover back. She died too young.

“How did you know?”

“Why else would anyone willingly venture to the land of the dead?” Sansa laughs. “Was she beautiful?”

“She was to me. She had red hair, kissed by fire. She was a wildling- though they call themselves the Free Folk- and they believe red hair is lucky. She was brave, and wild. Smarter than me. But none of that was enough to keep her alive. It was my fault she died.” Jon almost smiles when speaking of his lover, but it’s fleeting. “I was a member of the Night’s Watch, and the men I called brothers killed her. And then they tried to kill me, I suppose.”

“The Night’s Watch. Jon, don’t you know life is too short to swear off love?” Sansa chastises. “Very well, that’s a worthy quest. I’ll help you. To get to the land of the dead, you need to follow this river downstream, past the horizon, to where the sun rests at night. Go underground. Don’t touch the boatman’s stone hand, or his curse will consume you as well. And when you reach the dragons-”

“Wait, there are  _ dragons _ ?”

“Of course there are dragons. Stop trembling. It’s imperative that you don’t show them you’re afraid. Even if you’re so terrified that you’ve ruined your breeches, approach them open-handed, and look them calmly in the eye. Don’t be foolish and try to kill them.”

At last Jon looks at her, but his grey eyes aren’t filled with lust. He searches her face for any sign of malice or deceit, and though Sansa harbors none toward him, he wouldn’t be able to tell if she did just from looking at her. She’s had a millenia to perfect the art of lying. “Are you certain?” he finally asks. He speaks with all the resignation of a martyr.

“You have more reasons to trust me than not,” Sansa says.

“How can I repay you?”

“You don’t need to. I don’t want much. Go find your lover, Jon Snow.”

But he doesn’t go, not quite yet. He keeps looking at her. Part of Sansa wants to sink deeper into the water, and part of her wants to boldly step onto the shore. “What’s your name?” Jon asks. “Who are you?”

Sansa knows full well what they say about her in the realms of men. Some of the stories are lies sown by Petyr, but some are true. This hero almost certainly knows far too much about her already. But Sansa doesn’t want to lie to him, so she compromises with a half truth. “Someone who wants to see love succeed. That’s all.”

***

She doesn’t expect him to come back. She knows better than to expect anything of men. But sometimes Sansa wonders if he ever found his lover, and if she kissed his frowns away, and they’re living in perfect unremarkable happiness. Other times, when she’s tired of convincing herself that she isn’t lonely, she remembers his grey eyes and hopes his quest failed. 

Most of the time, though, she forgets him- until the winter solstice.  

Snow falls in the night and covers Sansa while she sleeps. Everything in the garden becomes sharp and glittering and cold to the touch. The cold burns in her lungs, but she doesn’t mind. 

When Jon comes back, stumbling upstream, smoke is trailing from his edges, and every drop of blood which falls onto the snow melts through the frost and reveals a glimmer of green. He looks like the invisible burden he carries on his shoulders has gotten a little heavier since he’s been gone- like he carries not just the fate of the seven mortal kingdoms, but the eighth immortal one too.

When she sees him, Sansa says, “I thought I told you not to try and kill the dragons.”

“ _ They  _ tried to kill  _ me,” _ Jon replies before he collapses. “Their mother was angry.”

“What did you do to anger Daenerys?” Sansa asks, then says, “Wait, don’t answer. Drink this first- it’ll help with the pain.” She holds a vial of milk of the poppy to Jon’s lips, and he downs it gratefully. While he rests there, she begins to prepare a poultice of lavender and comfrey, which will be useful for his burns. 

It doesn’t take long for the milk of the poppy to set in. Jon stares up at the sky, delirious, and Sansa can’t be sure he’s aware she’s listening as he rambles. “Ygritte is gone. That was her name. Ygritte. Did you know the dead can choose to try life again? Be born again? Gods, who would choose that? Isn’t once enough? Wasn’t she tired?”

“I know. That’s what my family chose,” Sansa confides. She’s certain Jon will remember none of this conversation, and she takes comfort in telling her secrets without fear of consequences. 

“You had a family?”

“Once. I wasn’t always trapped in this garden. So Ygritte chose life. But you were gone a long time. At least, I think you were gone a long time. What else happened in the land of the dead?”

“Daenerys.” Sansa is familiar with the goddess of the dead- the way Jon says that one word is explanation enough. She finishes grinding the poultice and leans over Jon to apply it to his wounds. His grey eyes fixate on her hair, and he raises a hand to touch it. But his aim is crooked with pain and drugged exhaustion, and Sansa has to resist the urge to laugh at him batting at her like a kitten. “Kissed by fire,” Jon mumbles, just before his eyes close.

His namesake continues to fall all around them.

***

This time, Sansa is waiting for him when he wakes. “How are you feeling?” she asks. 

“Better.” Jon props himself up on one elbow and inspects the burns. The garden is seeped in night by then, and he leans away from the small fire Sansa has lit. 

“You heal awfully quick for a mortal.”

“Well, I’m not a mortal,” he sighs. Sansa hadn’t taken Jon for one to jest easily, but she waits for some glint in his eye, some thin crescent of a smile, something to indicate he isn’t serious. Jon’s downcast expression doesn’t change, though. “When I was underground, in the land of the dead, my  _ father  _ came down. He said he sensed an important presence.”

“You?”

“You sound so surprised. You know, the reason I joined the Night’s Watch is because blood isn’t important to them. Being a bastard doesn’t matter. I never knew my father growing up, and no one ever let me forget it. If they’d only known I’m the son of Rhaegar…”

“King of the gods?” Sansa has never encountered him, just heard the stories. She hadn’t liked the sound of them. Of course she knew the foolishness of trusting myths, but she couldn’t imagine anyone more unlike Jon. 

“My mother never told me who my father was. She just said he was an important man. Turns out she just caught his eye for a passing moment, and he abandoned her as soon as he got bored. He didn’t know when she died. He didn’t even know I existed until I went down to the land of the dead. Then he said I was special, called me  _ the prince who was promised.  _ A hero. He offered me a crown and said my real name is Aegon. Can you believe it?

“So where’s the crown?” Sansa asks. 

Jon scoffs. “All my life I thought I was a bastard. How am I supposed to be a prince?” He stares into the flames, misery etched into every line of his face. Sansa reaches out and swats him on the side of the head. He flinches, and looks so betrayed, one might’ve thought he’d been stabbed again

Sansa stands up and says, “You know what I think, Jon, Aegon, whatever your name is? I think you don’t know how to be happy. Most men would be ecstatic to learn they’re the son of a god. To learn they can’t be killed. To learn they’re destined to be a hero.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“None of us get what we want! Haven’t you learned that by now? Do you think I want to be in this garden? No- but you don’t see me staring into the fire crying about it. What would Ygritte tell you to do, if she were here?"

“To stop complaining.”

“And she’d be right. When you were a mortal, you joined the Night’s Watch. You devoted your life to helping others, Jon. What’s stopping you from doing that now? You’re meant to be a hero. Go out and be one.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything for a long while, and Sansa fears he’ll just go back to staring at the fire and intermittently sighing. But then she sees a change come over him. Something about the look in his eye, the set of his jaw, the way he holds himself changes. For the first time, in the half-light of the flames, he looks like he might be the son of a god. “You’re right,” he says. “Thank you-” He stops. “I still don’t know your name.”

“You didn’t even know  _ your  _ real name until very recently. What do names matter?” Once again, the words leave the bitter taste of a lie in her mouth, but Jon seems to accept it. But before he crosses the river, he has another question for her.

“You said you don’t want to be here, in the garden. Is someone keeping you here against your will?”

“Go save the mortals, Jon. Don’t try to rescue me,” Sansa says. He’s far too lucid now for Sansa to confess any more secrets to him, and while he waits for her a little while longer, it becomes clear she’ll stay silent. Jon eventually crosses the river and leaves her alone. 

***

Petyr materializes on the opposite riverbank, as close to the water as he can get without wetting the hem of his black cloak. Sansa briefly wonders what schemes he’s been spinning and what promises he’s been breaking since he last left. “Where’s your hero?” he asks her as a greeting. 

Sansa doesn’t reply, but he’s not so easily dissuaded. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of stories about him. He’s been making a name for himself. Negotiating peace between the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch. Gaining vengeance against those who tried to kill him. Waging war against the Others.”

“But he’s not so impressive, when you see him, really. Doesn’t live up to the stories. He’s really very unremarkable,” Petyr continues. Sansa focuses intently on tugging the weeds from the soil surrounding her herbs. She imagines each little green stalk is Petyr’s spine- so easily torn in two. 

“The dragon queen disagrees with me. She loves him ardently, they say. Do you regret helping him go down into her kingdom? They say she’s the most beautiful woman in eight kingdoms.”

“I thought you just said the stories aren’t ever true. Besides, he didn’t stay with her. And you’re the richest man in all eight kingdoms, and I didn’t stay with you. What does any of it matter?” Sansa snaps

“Sweetling, how do you know he didn’t go back to her? You don’t know. You can’t cross the river and go see, can you?

“I wonder sometimes,” Sansa says, voice like honey, same as Petyr’s. She doesn’t turn around to look at him. “If I asked Jon to tear out your tongue- would he do it? What good is a liar without a tongue?” 

When she turns around, Petyr is gone.

***

But still, the next time Jon crosses the river into her domain, Sansa can’t stop the whispers from echoing in her thoughts.  _ They say she’s the most beautiful woman in the eight kingdoms.  _ And Sansa does’t usually believe the stories, but she’s seen Daenerys. She knows

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks her. He’s gritting his teeth as Sansa is sewing a wound along his lower ribs, but suddenly her movements had stopped and she had merely stared at him. 

Sansa was never very brave, but she summons what little courage she possesses and asks, “Why didn’t you stay with Daenerys?”

Jon is blindsided. “ _ What _ ?”

“I heard the stories. Even here. I know she’s beautiful.

“She’s a monster,” Jon says. “She enjoys passing judgement on the dead souls. She enjoys subjecting them to eternal dragonfire. It makes her feel righteous. She killed her own brother, did you know that?”

“After he tried to carve her unborn child out of her,” Sansa remarks dryly. She resumes her work, and quickly ties a knot to finish the job. Jon doesn’t hurry to pull his tunic back on.

“What, do you approve of her?” he asks

“I won’t pretend Daenerys is my favorite immortal, but ruling the land of the dead is a grisly task. Someone has to do it. Besides, gods aren’t monsters. Gods aren’t good, or evil. They’re gods. Death isn’t good or evil. It’s just part of existence.”

Sansa doesn’t know if she’s making any sense but suddenly she needs Jon to understand this. She needs it desperately. “Sometimes the most beautiful flowers grow out of the ash after a forest fire,” she says.

He contemplates what’s she said, and sighs. “I didn’t stay because… Daenerys offered me glory. An empire to rule. But all I wanted was a place to rest my head.”

***

One day Jon crosses the river, and he isn’t burnt, he isn’t bleeding. He isn’t hurt, so he has no use for Sansa at all. Maybe he came not because he needed her, but because he wanted to be near her, to gain nothing but her company. Sansa smiles at the thought. “Jon!”

“You never told me your name,” he says. It’s an accusation.

Her smile falters. “Sounds to me like you already know it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Was it such a crime for me not to say it? I know what stories they tell about me. I know the lies he tells. They pretend I’m a monster. Wings of a bat, fangs of a wolf, purple serpents in my hair. Able to turn men to stone with one look.”

Jon has one hand on the hilt of his sword. He looks  _ righteous  _ in his anger, and Sansa has to laugh. It’s a humorless sound. The sounds of something breaking. 

“Are they lying?” he asks. “Or are you?”

“I already told you, Jon. Gods aren’t good or evil. I have wolves turn rapists apart limb by limb. That’s murder. Is murder wrong? Is murder evil? I turn whores into constellations when they die so their beauty is always preserved in the night sky. Whoring is wrong. Am I wrong? Am I evil?”

“You’re married,” he says. “You let me believe-”

“Believe what?”

Jon takes his hand off the hilt of his sword, reaches out, tries to grasp her by the arm and hold her in one place. But he never touches her flesh- a shock hits him before he can, and the jolt of it has him recoiling. 

“Part of the curse,” she explains.

“But we’ve touched before.”

“You haven’t reached out to me before. I can touch you, but no one can touch me. Except Petyr. He wanted to make sure no one would steal me. That I could only be his, for the rest of eternity. Why do you think I can’t leave this garden? I was a foolish mortal girl who was scared of death and wanted a crown. Petyr offered both, and tricked me into marrying him- he  _ is  _ the god of trickery and lies, after all- but I refused to let him take his rights or touch me, so he banished me here. He told everyone I was a monster. But he wove the spell wrong. I can’t leave, but he can’t enter. No one can.”

“Except me,” Jon says. 

“Except you. You’re a halfling. Neither man or immortal.” Sansa reaches out and cups his jaw gently. He lets her touch him, leans into her. Her thumb moves back and forth across his lips. She would have never expected them to be so soft. Jon’s lips part, and Sansa feels a moment of heat. Jon moves closer to her, so close that she can feel the curse between them like she can feel heat lightning on a summer day. 

“Sansa,” he breathes, and she can feel the truth of it on his tongue. Even with the remnants of anger in his voice, she likes the way he says her name. 

It hurts, but she steps away. “I’m sorry I lied. Do you still think I’m a monster?”

“Maybe we’re all monsters.”

“Petyr meant to imprison me as punishment,” Sansa says. “But he told everyone he trapped me for their protection. That I couldn’t be trusted to walk free.”

“Was he lying?”

“Some days I’m not sure.”

***

Who can say how much time passes? Things move differently in the eighth kingdom. 

Jon comes back, but this time, he doesn’t cross the river. Sansa stands on one side, and he on the other, and the current runs between them. “I hope you’re not here to insult me again,” she says.

“No. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry.” Jon is almost his old bashful self again. The way he was back when she thought he was unlike any other man. 

“Why don’t you come over here?”

“That’s your kingdom. I’ll only cross if you want me to.” And he's true to his word- he doesn't step forward. 

Sansa considers this. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Did you come here just to apologize?”

“No. I want to tell you about wildling rituals.” Once again, Sansa waits for some sign of a jest. But Jon is serious as death. 

“What do wildling rituals have to do with  _ anything _ ?”

“When a wildling man wants to marry a woman of the Free Folk, he sneaks into her bedroll at night and tries to steal her.”

“Sounds barbaric.”

“No, it’s a farce. A wildling woman will know how to fend him off if he’s unwanted. He’s likely to be gelded if she doesn’t want to go with him. But if she’s willing…”

“I don’t know how to fight, Jon.”

“I think you do, in your own way,” he says. “You said I can cross the river. You can’t. Petyr can’t. But I can.”

“That’s right.”

Jon looks up at the sky, at all the constellations of beautiful whores she’s painted with blue with. “The winter solstice is tomorrow,” he remarks. “When I was down in the land of the dead, I had to wait until the winter solstice because that was when Daenerys’ power was at its lowest ebb. She couldn’t stop me from leaving, even though she wanted to.”

Sansa smiles for the first time since Jon told her he knew her name. 

***

She doesn’t geld him. She doesn’t turn him to stone with a single look. And she doesn’t cry out when Jon crosses the river and picks her up- finally he’s able to touch her- carries her how mortal men carry their brides to some northern forest where the air smells like home. She doesn’t cry out til later- the sound sends the birds flying from the trees- and it’s not a cry for a help. She doesn’t need saving.

Snow is falling across the eight kingdoms, but it melts when it hits their bare flesh. 

“Say my name, say my name,” she begs him. He’ll do whatever she asks; her name is on his lips- lips softer than she ever expected- is a prayer for absolution which she is all too eager to grant. 

Later, when she’s lying in his arms, he says, “The sun is setting.”

“We have to go back soon,” she murmurs. But she doesn’t stir. She’ll only move when she feels the last of the sun’s rays sink behind the mountain, down into the land of the dead.

She can feel his lips moving against her hair as he speaks. “One day isn’t enough. How am I supposed to give you up?”

“We’re gods,” she reminds him. “It’s one day a year, yes. But it’s endless years.” 


End file.
